Dag 38 en 39: Makurdi na Abuja

(English Translation Below)

Dag 38 en 39: Makurdi na Abuja
 
Ons laaglê-dag in Makurdi doen wondere. Die motorfietsklub sorg vir ons. Ons motorfietse en sakke en klere word behóórlik gewas. My tru-spieeltjie wat in die berge afgebreek het, word reggemaak. De Witt se handskerm ook.
 
Tog begin beide van ons voel dat die trip nou lank raak. Ek moet opstaan en pak om te ry, maar voel nie lus om uit die bed te klim nie. Ek dink: As ons goed vorder kan ons dalk 'n week of twee vroeër by die huis wees. Ek sit die gedagte eenkant. Die pad is nog lánk. Dink aan die hier-en-nou.
 
Ons groet vir David en sy klublede, neem fotos, en ry. Snelweg Abuja toe. Steeds, elke 5km, soms elke 2km, stompe en dromme oor die pad. 'n Man in uniform. Ons waai, vandag waai hulle meestal terug en ons ry net deur.
 
Ons het weer nie geëet vanoggend nie. Môre móét ons 'n plan maak om iets te eet voor ons ry.
 
Skielik weer gewere in die pad. Een met die pistool sommer in die hand. Die ander met 'n AK47. Rooi klere aan. Wys ons moet stop. Hulle is die Anti-Dwelm Agentskap en gaan ons deursoek vir dwelms. Kyk deeglik deur die sakke hier voor op ons petroltenks tot hulle tevrede is. Ons kan ry.
 
Skaars 'n halfuur later, op dieselfde pad, nog 'n anti-dwelm soekery. Dié keer meer aggressief. Voel-soek my lyf. My petroltenk-sak. Sien die pyn- en maagpille. Maak 'n groot konsternasie daarvan. Mens mag nie medisyne vervoer nie! Ok ek kan ry. Ek is verlig - bly hulle het nie die sak met malariapille, antibiotika en kortisoon agterin gekry nie. Ek sit my valhelm op. Dis warm. Nee wag! Roep 'n ander een. Klim af! Pak uit jou sakke hier agter!
 
Ek haal diep asem. Moenie kwaad word nie. My hart klop in my keel want in my kleresak agter is 'n klomp medisyne en die voorskrif daarvoor is wie-weet-waar. Ek hou verby my kleresak en begin met die heel agterste sak. Vat dit stadig. Wil hulle uitmergel sodat ek nie my kleresak met die medisyne heelbo in hoef oop te maak nie. Ek loer oor in De Witt se rigting en sien hy is ook besig om uit te pak. Ek wys vir hulle elke item in detail. Kamera. Kompressor. Oliefilter. Bril. Lappie. Die einde van die sak se inhoud kom nader. Dit moet stop voor die volgende sak ter sprake kom. Ek vra skielik of hulle besef dat hierdie die slegste ervaring sover op ons 9000km reis, deur agt lande, is? Die kwaaie kyk my half geskok-verleë aan. Sê dis OK. Ek kan my sakke toemaak en ry. Verligting!
 
Om in Abuja te kom is weereens 'n chaos van voetgangers, diep slaggate, vragmotors, tuk-tuks en zoem-ponies. Ons slaap vanaand weer in 'n hotel wat aan 'n motorfietsklublid behoort. Hy laat ons per whatsapp weet daar daar twee yskoue biere, op die huis, vir ons wag. Driehonderd kilometer op snelweg gery vandag en dit het net meer as vyf ure gevat. Gister se laaglê is vergete. Maar ons is halfpad.
 
Day 38 and 39: Makurdi to Abuja
 
Our rest day in Makurdi works wonders. The motorbike club takes care of us. Our bikes, bags and clothes are thoroughly cleaned. My rear-view mirror that broke in the mountains gets fixed. De Witt's hand guard is repaired.
 
Still, both of us are starting to feel like the trip is getting long. I need to get up and pack to ride, but I don't feel like getting out of bed. I think, if we make good progress, we might get home a week or two earlier. I put the thought aside. The road is still long. Think about the here-and-now.
 
We say goodbye to David and his club members, take photos, and ride. We are on the highway towards Abuja. Still, every 5km, sometimes every 2km, there are roadblocks and checkpoints. A man in uniform. We wave. Today they mostly wave us through without stopping.
 
We left without breakfast. Again. Tomorrow we must make a plan to eat something before we ride.
 
Suddenly, more men with guns in the road. One has a pistol, another an AK47. Wearing red clothes. They stop us. They are from the Anti-Drug Agency and are going to search us for drugs. They thoroughly search our tank bags until they are satisfied. We can ride.
 
Scarcely half an hour later, on the same road, another anti-drug search. This time, it's more aggressive. They frisk my body. Scrutinise my tank bag. They see the pain and stomach pills. Make a big deal out of it. You're not allowed to transport medicines! Okay, I can go. I'm relieved - glad they didn't find the bag with malaria pills, antibiotics and cortisone in the back. I put on my helmet. It's hot. Wait! Calls another one. Get off! Open your bags here at the back!
 
I take a deep breath. Don't get angry. My heart pounds in my throat because in my clothing bag at the back is a bunch of medicines, and the prescription for them is who-knows-where. I ignore the clothing bag and start with the tail bag. Take it very slowly. I want to stretch it out unbearably so that I don't have to open my clothing bag with the medicines. I glance in De Witt's direction and see he's also unpacking. I show them every item in detail. Camera. Compressor. Oil filter. Glasses. Cloth. The end of the bag's contents is approaching. It has to stop before the next bag comes into question. Suddenly, I ask if they realize that this is the worst experience on our 9000km journey, through eight countries, so far? The angry one gives me a half-shocked and embarrassed look. Says it's okay. I can close my bags and go. Relief!
 
Getting into Abuja is once again a chaos of pedestrians, deep potholes, cargo trucks, tuk-tuks, and small motorcycles. We stay in a hotel owned by a member of the motorbike club. He lets us know via WhatsApp that two ice-cold beers are waiting for us, on the house. We rode 300km on the highway today, and it took a little over five hours. Yesterday's rest day is forgotten. But we're halfway there.

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